Kirinyaga Page 11

“Almost time for what?”

  “For Bwana to leave Kirinyaga.” I paused. “That is why I sent for you.”

  “The mundumugu wishes me to help him?” said Ndemi, his young face shining with pride.

  I nodded.

  “I will do anything you say,” vowed Ndemi.

  “Good. Do you know who makes the oils with which Bwana an-noints himself?”

  “Old Wambu makes them.”

  “You must bring me two gourds filled with them.”

  “I thought only the Maasai annoints himself,” said Ndemi.

  “Just do as I say. Now, have you a bow?”

  “No, but my father does. He has not used it in many years, so he will not mind if I take it.”

  “I do not want anyone to know you have it.”

  Ndemi shrugged and idly drew a pattern in the dirt with his forefinger. “He will blame the young men who follow Bwana.”

  “And has your father any arrows with sharp tips?”

  “No,” said Ndemi. “But I can make some.”

  “I want you to make some this afternoon,” I said. “Ten should be enough.”

  Ndemi drew an arrow in the dirt. “Like so?” he asked.

  “A little shorter,” I said.

  “I can get the feathers for the arrows from the chickens in our boma” he suggested.

  I nodded. “That is good.”

  “Do you want me to shoot an arrow into Bwana?”

  “I told you once: the Kikuyu do not kill their fellow men.”

  “Then what do you want me to do with the arrows?”

  “Bring them back here to my boma when you have made them,” I said. “And bring ten pieces of cloth in which to wrap them.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we will dip them into the poison I have been making.”

  He frowned. “But you do not wish me to shoot an arrow into Bwana?” He paused. “What shall I shoot, then?”

  “I will tell you when the time comes,” I said. “Now return to the village and do what I have asked you to do.”

  “Yes, Koriba,” he said, running out of my boma and down the hill on his strong young legs as a number of guinea fowl, squawking and screeching, moved resentfully out of his path.

  It was less than an hour later that Koinnage once again climbed my hill, this time accompanied by Njobe and two other Elders, all wearing their tribal robes.

  “fambo, Koriba,” said Koinnage unhappily.

  “fambo,“ I replied.

  “You told me to come back when I understood why Bwana must leave,” said Koinnage. He spat on the ground, and a tiny spider raced away. “I have come.”

  “And what have you learned?” I asked, raising my hand to shade my eyes from the sun.

  He lowered his eyes to the ground, uncomfortable as a child being questioned by his father.

  “I have learned that a Utopia is a delicate thing which requires protection from those who would force their will upon it.”

  “And you, Njobe?” I said. “What have you learned?”

  “Our life here was very good,” he answered. “And I believed that goodness was its own defense.” He sighed deeply “But it is not.”

  “Is Kirinyaga worth defending?” I asked.

  “How can you, of all people, ask that?” demanded one of the other two Elders.

  “The Maasai can bring many machines and much money to Kirinyaga,” I said. “He seeks only to improve us, not destroy us.”

  “It would not be Kirinyaga any longer,” said Njobe. “It would be Kenya all over again.”

  “He has corrupted everything he has touched,” said Koinnage, his face contorted with rage and humiliation. “My own son has become one of his followers. No longer does he show respect for his father, or for our women or our traditions. He speaks only of money and guns now, and he worships Bwana as if he were Ngai Himself.” He paused. “You must help us, Koriba.”

  “Yes,” added Njobe. “We were wrong not to listen to you.”

  I stared at each of their worried faces in turn, and finally I nodded.

  “I will help you.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?” persisted Koinnage, coughing as the wind blew a cloud of dust past his face. “We cannot wait much longer.”

  “Within a week the Maasai will be gone,” I said.

  “Within a week?” repeated Koinnage.

  “That is my promise.” I paused. “But if we are to purify our society, his followers may have to leave with him.”

  “You cannot take my son from me!” said Koinnage.

  “The Maasai has already taken him,” I pointed out. “I will have to decide if he will be allowed to return.”

  “But he is to be the paramount chief when I die.”

  “That is my price, Koinnage,” I said firmly. “You must let me decide what to do with the Maasai's followers.” I placed a hand to my heart. “I will make a just decision.”

  “I do not know,” muttered Koinnage.

  I shrugged. “Then live with the Maasai.”

  Koinnage stared intently at the ground, as if the ants and termites could tell him what to do. Finally he sighed.

  “It will be as you say,” he agreed unhappily

  “How will you rid us of the Maasai?” asked Njobe.

  “I am the munduniugu” I answered noncommittally, for I wanted no hint of my plan to reach Bwana's ears.

  “It will take powerful magic,” said Njobe.

  “Do you doubt my powers?” I asked.

  Njobe would not meet my gaze. “No, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But he is like a god. He will be difficult to destroy.”

  “We have room for only one god,” I said, “and His name is Ngai.”

  They returned to the village, and I went back to blending my poison.

  While I waited for Ndemi to return, I took a thin piece of wood and carved a tiny hole in it. Then I took a long needle, stuck it lengthwise through the entire length of the wood, and withdrew it.

  Finally I placed the wood to my lips and blew into the hole. I could hear no sound, but the cattle in the pasture suddenly raised their heads, and two of my goats began racing frantically in circles. I tried my makeshift whistle twice more, received the same reaction, and finally put it aside.

  Ndemi arrived in midafternoon, carrying the oil gourds, his father's ancient bow, and ten carefully crafted arrows. He had been unable to find any metal, but he had carved very sharp points at the end of each. I checked the bowstring, decided that it still had resiliency, and nodded my approval.

  Then, very carefully making sure not to let any of the poison come in contact with my flesh, I dipped the head of each arrow into my solution, and wrapped them in the ten pieces of cloth Ndemi had brought.

  “It is good,” I said. “Now we are ready.”

  “What must I do, Koriba?” he asked.

  “In the old days when we still lived in Kenya, only Europeans were allowed to hunt, and they used to be paid to take other Europeans on safari,” I explained. “It was important to these white hunters that their clients killed many animals, for if they were disappointed, they would either not return or would pay a different white hunter to take them on their next safari.” I paused. “Because of this, the hunters would sometimes train a pride of lions to come out and be killed.”

  “How would they do this, Koriba?” asked Ndemi, his eyes wide with wonder.

  “The white hunter would send his tracker out ahead of the safari,” I said, pouring the oil into six smaller gourds as I spoke. “The tracker would go into the veldt where the lions lived, and kill a wildebeest or a zebra, and slit open its belly, so that the odors wafted in the wind. Then he would blow a whistle. The lions would come, either because of the odors or because they were curious about the strange new sound.

  “The tracker would kill another zebra the next day, and blow the whistle again, and the lions would come again. This went on ever
y day until the lions knew that when they heard the whistle, there would be a dead animal waiting for them—and when the tracker had finally trained them to come at the sound of the whistle, he would return to the safari, and lead the hunter and his clients to the veldt where the lions dwelt, and then blow the whistle. The lions would run toward the sound, and the hunter's clients would collect their trophies.”

  I smiled at his delighted reaction, and wondered if anyone left on Earth knew that the Kikuyu had anticipated Pavlov by more than a century.

  Then I handed Ndemi the whistle I had carved.

  “This is your whistle,” I said. “You must not lose it.”

  “I will place a thong around my neck and tie it to the thong,” he said. “I will not lose it.”

  “If you do,” I continued, “I will surely die a terrible death.”

  “You can trust me, mundumuguT

  “I know I can.” I picked up the arrows and handed them carefully to him. “These are yours,” I said. “You must be very careful with them. If you cut your skin on them, or press them against a wound, you will almost certainly die, and not all of my powers will be able to save you.”

  “I understand,” he said, taking the arrows gingerly and setting them on the ground next to his bow.

  “Good,” I said. “Do you know the forest that is half a mile from the house Bwana has built by the river?”

  “Yes, Koriba.”

  “Each day I want you to go there and slay a grasseater with one of your poisoned arrows. Do not try to kill the buffalo, because he is too dangerous—but you may kill any other grasseater. Once it is dead, pour all the oil from one of these six gourds onto it.”

  “And then shall I blow the whistle for the hyenas?” he asked.

  “Then you will climb a nearby tree, and only when you are safe in its branches are you to blow the whistle,” I said. “They will come— slowly the first day, more rapidly the second and third, and almost instantly by the fourth. You will sit in the tree for a long time after they have eaten and gone, and then you will climb down and return to your boma.”

  “I will do as you ask, Koriba,” he said. “But I do not see how this will make Bwana leave Kirinyaga.”

  “That is because you are not yet a mundurnugu? I replied with a smile. “But I am not yet through instructing you.”

  “What else must I do?”

  “I have one final task to set before you,” I continued. “Just before sunrise on the seventh day, you will leave your boma and kill a seventh animal.”

  “I only have six gourds of oil,” he pointed out.

  “You will not need any on the seventh day. They will come simply because you whistle.” I paused to make sure he was following my every word. “As I say, you will kill a grasseater before sunrise, but this time you will not spread oil on him, and you will not blow your whistle immediately. You will climb a tree that affords you a clear view of the plains between the woods and the river. At some point you will see me wave my hand thus”—I demonstrated a very definite rotating motion with my right hand—”and then you must blow the whistle immediately. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  “And what you have told me to do will rid Kirinyaga of Bwana forever?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I knew how,” persisted Ndemi.

  “This much I will tell you,” I said. “Being a civilized man, he will expect two things: that I will confront him on my own territory, and that—because I, too, have been educated by the Europeans—I will use the Europeans' technology to defeat him.”

  “But you will not do what he expects?”

  “No,” I said. “He still does not understand that our traditions supply us with everything we need on Kirinyaga. I will confront him on his own battleground, and I will defeat him with the weapons of the Kikuyu and not the Europeans.” I paused again. “And now, Ndemi, you must go slay the first of the grasseaters, or it will be dark before you go home, and I do not want you walking across the savannah at night.”

  He nodded, picked up his whistle and his weapons, and strode off toward the woods by the river.

  On the sixth night I walked down to the village, arriving just after dark.

  The dancing hadn't started yet, though most of the adults had already gathered. Four young men, including Koinnage's son, tried to block my way, but Bwana was in a generous mood, and he waved them aside.

  “Welcome, old man,” he said, sitting atop his tall stool. “It has been many days since I have seen you.”

  “I have been busy.”

  “Plotting my downfall?” he asked with an amused smile.

  “Your downfall was predetermined by Ngai,” I replied.

  “And what will cause my downfall?” he continued, signaling one of his wives—he had five now—to bring him a fresh gourd of pombe.

  “The fact that you are not a Kikuyu.”

  “What is so special about the Kikuyu?” he demanded. “They are a tribe of sheep who stole their women from the Wakamba and their cattle and goats from the Luo. Their sacred mountain, from which this world took its name, they stole from the Maasai, for Kirinyaga is a Maasai word.”

  “Is that true, Koriba?” asked one of the younger men.

  I nodded. “Yes, it is true. In the language of the Maasai, kiri means mountain, and nyaga means light. But while it is a Maasai word, it is the Kikuyu's Mountain of Light, given to us by Ngai.”

  “It is the Maasai's mountain,” said Bwana. “Even its peaks are named after Maasai chieftains.”

  “There has never been a Maasai on the holy mountain,” said old Njobe.

  “We owned the mountain first, or it would bear a Kikuyu name,” responded Bwana.

  “Then the Kikuyu must have slain the Maasai, or driven them away,” said Njobe with a sly smile.

  This remark angered Bwana, for he threw his gourd of pombe at a passing goat, hitting it on the flanks with such power that it bowled the goat over. The animal quickly got to its feet and raced through the village, bleating in terror.

  “You are fools!” growled Bwana. “And if indeed the Kikuyu drove the Maasai from the mountain, then I will now redress the balance. I now proclaim myself Laibon of Kirinyaga, and declare that it is no longer a Kikuyu world.”

  “What is a laibon?” asked one of the men.

  “It is the Maasai word for king,” I said.

  “How can this not be a Kikuyu world, when everyone except you is a Kikuyu?” Njobe demanded of Bwana.

  Bwana pointed at his five young henchmen. “I hereby declare these men to be Maasai.”

  “You cannot make them Maasai just by calling them Maasai.”

  Bwana grinned as the flickering firelight cast strange patterns on his sleek, shining body. “I can do anything I want. I am the laibon.”

  “Perhaps Koriba has something to say about that,” said Koinnage, for he knew that the week was almost up.

  Bwana stared at me belligerently “Well, old man, do you dispute my right to be king?”

  “No,” I said. “I do not.”

  “Koriba!” exclaimed Koinnage.

  “You cannot mean that!” said Njobe.

  “We must be realistic,” I said. “Is he not our mightiest hunter?”

  Bwana snorted. “I am your only hunter.”

  I turned to Koinnage. “Who else but Bwana could walk naked into the veldt, armed only with a spear, and slay fisi?”

  Bwana nodded his head. “That is true.”

  “Of course,” I continued, “none of us saw him do it, but I am sure he would not lie to us.”

  “Do you dispute that I killed fisi with a spear?” demanded Bwana heatedly.

  “I do not dispute it,” I said earnestly. “I have no doubt that you could do it again whenever you wished.”

  “That is true, old man,” he said, somewhat assuaged.

  “In fact,” I continued, “perhaps we should celebrate your becoming laibon with another suc
h hunt—but this time in the daylight, so that your subjects may see for themselves the prowess and courage of their king.”

  He took another gourd from his youngest wife and stared at me intently. “Why are you saying this, old man? What do you really want?”

  “Only what I have said,” I replied, spitting on my hands to show my sincerity.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You are up to some mischief.”

  I shrugged. “Well, if you would rather not…”

  “Perhaps he is afraid to,” said Njobe.

  “I fear nothing!” snapped Bwana.

  “Certainly he does not fear fisi,” I said. “That much should be evident by now.”

  “Right,” said Bwana, still staring at me.

  “Then if he does not fear fisi, what does he fear about a hunt?” asked Njobe.

  “He does not wish to hunt because I suggested it,” I replied. “He still does not trust me, and that is understandable.”

  “Why is that understandable?” demanded Bwana. “Do you think I fear your mumbo-jumbo like the other sheep do?”

  “I have not said that,” I answered.

  “You have no magic, old man,” he said, getting to his feet. “You have only tricks and threats, and these mean nothing to a Maasai.” He paused, and then raised his voice so that everyone could hear him. “I will spend the night in Koinnage's hut, and then I will hunt fisi tomorrow morning, in the old way, so that all my subjects can see their laibon in combat.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” I repeated.

  He glared at me, his Maasai arrogance chiseled in every feature of his lean, handsome face.

  “At sunrise.”

  I awoke early the next morning, as usual, but this time, instead of building a fire and sitting next to it until the chill had vanished from my aged bones, I donned my kikoi and walked immediately to the village. All of the men were gathered around Koinnage's boma, waiting for Bwana to emerge.

  Finally he came out of his hut, his body annointed beneath his red cloak. He seemed clear-eyed despite the vast quantities of pombe he had imbibed the previous night, and in his right hand he clutched the same spear he had used during his very first hunt on Kirinyaga.

  Contemptuous of us all, he looked neither right nor left, but began walking through the village and out onto the savannah toward the river. We fell into step behind him, and our little procession continued until we were perhaps a mile from his house. Then he stopped and held a hand up.